Over and over,
this smooth sound is going through one
ear and the other, the settle sound
of the rushing of blood
flowing through my ever shedding,
ever alleviating body, by nature? NO.
Still accompanied by the "truth," my human
parts being made without molded clay,
all of them free now, a part of something many
find "naughty."
You can find similarities in the mountains,
in the various hills arches, like the back, the neck,
the lift of the full volume of your chest,
You reach for the toothbrush, the comb,
ashamed; your hair in tangles, of the teeth that decay,
though one time you shall see how the
chest is so filled with pain. Nevermind.
We all don't care about that pain until it happens that
eventual day. This human body made "without perfections,"
it continues to smell, to pleasure or suffer, to be hungry,
to find itself wrapped up in it's sole need for ***.
We must remember to be clean for inspections.
No exceptions, no matter what is being said.
It will keep clawing, keep scratching, until it finds it's
way out, once it escapes it's metal cage.